


Who You Are Behind Locked Doors

by tsukinofaerii



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU after Silverfinger, Dark Character, Gen, Mentions of Derek/Stiles, Nogitsune Stiles, Torture, season 3b spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Stiles locked himself away. But now the door's open again, and he's not going to let anything stop him from protecting  the people he loves. Even if it means losing them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who You Are Behind Locked Doors

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Full Moon Challenge. Gotta be honest, I meant for this to be a short, gay porn PWP, and I really don't know what the fuck happened.

_He leaned against the tree stump, panting, face streaked with snot and tears. It was too big to hold on to, so high that he could barely see the top. There was blood in its roots and death everywhere, but death had been following him and he just didn't care anymore. "Take it away!" he ordered it, nails—claws—digging long lines into the bark. "You—you did this, you made her—made me..." A sob made him choke on the words. He pressed his cheek to the rough bark._

_"Please... make it go away..."_

Stiles stared at the dull hospital wall, a trio of dying fireflies twitching at his feet. Thoughtfully, he toed at them. They weren't gone yet, but they would be. He just had to wait for them to die.

That was what people did in hospitals, wasn't it? Wait for things to die.

_His mother gripped his hand tight. Her pretty nails bit into his palm, pink polish shiny and smooth as they dug in. The disease had wasted her away, made her thin and brittle and so very, very human, but she had strength for that. When she looked at him, the foxfire he'd put there sparked in her eyes._

"Are you okay?"

_Scott_. He twisted, blinking at his best friend. Scott's base, incredible goodness glowed around him, more of an aura than even his werewolf half could provide. His own aura snapped out, reaching for Scott's. He wanted to wrap himself up in that light like a blanket, snuggle in and bury himself in it, to protect it, to strangle it in his own. 

_"Like you killed me."_

No. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Stiles pulled his aura in at the last second and smiled, reaching to wrap his arm around Scott's shoulders instead. "Yeah. I'm fine." 

They walked together through the long, echoing corridors, with their industrial-blah colors and scuffed floors. The hospital was as empty as it had been the night of the evacuation, though better lit. The silence settled over Stiles' shoulders, pushed and clawed at him. He'd always hated hospitals.

One of Scott's hands came up to squeeze Stiles' shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay?" There was a furrow in Scott's brow that he was really too young for. Seeing it made Stiles' chest ache.

He cleared his throat and smiled. "Way better. Your mom knows her stuff." The lines on Scott's forehead deepened and no, Stiles wasn't having that. "What is it? Is she hurt or—"

"She's fine," Scott hurried to say. He pulled in closer, bending their heads together. A nurse appeared around the corner, signaling that they were reaching the parts of the place that were inhabited by more than janitors and dust bunnies. "Those things with the masks, Allison says they're called the _oni_. They came to my house and... One of them hurt my dad."

It took Stiles a second to swallow back his instinctive response of, _Couldn't have happened to a nicer man._ Honesty not only usually wasn't the best policy, sometimes it shouldn't even be on the pin board with the stern warning about washing out mugs in the employee kitchen. He went with a quick squeeze and, "Are you okay? Did he..." One of the people nearby was looking a little too interested, so Stiles just raised his eyebrows significantly. "Find out anything?" 

Red glinted at the edge of Scott's aura—irritation, frustration, hurt—but he shook his head. "No—no, it's still good, and they didn't hurt anyone else. I think they only attacked him because he went after them first." The colors at the edge of his aura cleared. When Scott lifted his head his expression was lighter, too. "It wasn't like Matt or Gerard." 

The name hit Stiles right in the stomach like a clenched fist. "No," he said slowly. "Nothing's really like Gerard." 

Scott, bless him, didn't pick up Stiles' change in mood. His attention had shifted to his mother, who was sitting in a visitor's chair wearing blood-stained scrubs. As soon as his eyes locked on her, he took a step, then paused, looking back at Stiles. 

"Go on." Stiles slid his hand from Scott's shoulder to his back and gave him a little push. "I'll be fine. I'll go home and rest. You go be with your mom."

Hesitation played over Scott's face for another second before he nodded and trotted off to grab the seat on his mom's left. Stiles slipped out the nearest door before Scott looked up to wave goodbye.

* * *

The Sheriff frowned at his son from the doorway as Stiles scribbled something down in a notebook. He'd been there for at least a minute, and Stiles hadn't noticed. Normally he wouldn't have thought anything about it. Stiles got distracted, got focused on things until the rest of the world vanished. But he could still hear Melissa's voice in his ear, tight and worried.

_"It's probably just a coincidence—they're pretty common symptoms, and God knows he has reasons to have nightmares, but I'd like to have Stiles come in for some tests..."_

Later. He'd deal with it later, when they had time to talk. That wasn't something Stiles should be left alone to deal with.

A tiny, terrified part of him knew waiting was stupid, that it wouldn't help anything, but he couldn't face it. Couldn't handle that much at once. And maybe Melissa was right, maybe it was just normal nightmares. Maybe. 

Shoving the thoughts aside, the Sheriff cleared his throat, expecting to snap Stiles out of whatever had his attention. Rather than jump, Stiles slowly looked up from his neglected homework, expression curious and collected and—off, it was _off_ , but not in a way that he could put his finger on. "Are you going to be okay tonight?" the Sheriff asked, and hoped he didn't sound as off-balance as he felt. 

"Yesssss...?" Stiles drew out the word, eyebrows rising to punctuate it. "Why wouldn't I be?" 

"I have a shift tonight?" Leaning against the doorframe, the Sheriff crossed his arms and tried to look authoritative. The lines of his uniform were creased from too many hours in it with too little time for laundry, and he probably looked like he'd been wrung out himself, but hopefully he still had it in him. Enough for an unruly teenage son, anyway. "Covering for Ryans? Remember, we talked about it."

"Shift?" Stiles' eyebrows pinched, and for a second the developing bags under his eyes looked deep as bruises. Then his face lit up in memory and the moment was gone. " _Oh_ , your _shift_! No, no, I'll be fine." 

The Sheriff frowned even more. "Are you sure?" he pressed. "Melissa told me you were at the hospital yesterday."

Waving his hand, Stiles sat back in his chair. "Yeah, she gave me a sedative. I just needed some actual sleep. I feel loads better."

There was nothing but total honesty in Stiles' face. The Sheriff stared, waiting for the break, for the twitch or blink that would break the illusion, for the sign that Stiles needed to be bundled up and thrown at Mrs. McCall so fast he'd leave a hole in the floor on landing. 

But it didn't come, and eventually the Sheriff had to fold. " _Call me_ if you need me, okay? No trying to fix things on your own." Loose floorboards creaked as he pushed off the doorframe and cross the room to kiss the top of his son's head. "And don't go anywhere. I mean it."

"Sure, Dad." Reaching up, Stiles wrapped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him hard. "Just me, some homework and some overdue z-catching tonight, I promise."

* * *

Grass crunched underfoot, stiff and a little dry as fall started to take hold. He kept the shadows wrapped around him like a coat, tucked his head down. The office door gave way easily, tumblers clicking into place with a touch. He slipped in, letting the door slip shut behind him.

Someone looking might see a hint of movement, but nothing else. Not that there was anyone around to see. It was two in the morning. Anyone who was still awake had better things to do. 

As he passed, cameras panned away, looking the other direction until he was safely out of sight. The second he stepped into the elevator, the single camera installed there fizzled, sending static to its receiver. Even the ding as the elevator stopped was muted, as if it knew not to draw too much attention to itself. 

_Tenth floor._

Walking down the hall, residents shivered in their beds, dreams taking a dark turn. Pets whimpered and hid. But they were all safe. He had a different target. 

The nameplate on the door said _Argent_. It was another simple lock, turning over for him without hesitation. Three heartbeats were behind it, two strong and one struggling. It smelled of decay and rotting flesh, but also of healing. A gift stolen and perverted.

_Sleep_ , he whispered to the hearts. _Sleep_.

Their beat deepened, steadied even more, until slumber had taken its hold so deeply that it would take a fire to wake them. Only then did he open the door. 

The third heart was waiting in the den, sitting in a wheelchair and clutching blackened tissues. He looked up, eyes darting around before they finally came to rest on him. His brow furrowed with the effort it took to focus, to see. "I can't say I saw this coming," Gerard croaked, voice thick with the rot that was eating him alive. "Well, come on, let's get this started. I might look weak, but I won't go down easy."

Stiles let the shadows drop from his shoulders, smiled when Gerard's watery eyes focused on him with laser precision and a shock of recognition. "Good."

* * *

At lunch, students shouted and called to each other as they made use of the last bit of decent weather before winter really sank in its teeth. The minor chaos made for a perfect place to have a council of war. Or, at least, a better place than a table in a crowded cafeteria. 

"He's just gone." Allison leaned across the table intently, French fries getting cold on her tray. Isaac and Scott took up the majority of the bench across the way, while Lydia perched delicately on the very edge of the bench to Allison's right. Stiles took up what was left, and it wasn't nearly enough space. His legs kept bumping into someone's. "There was no sign of him anywhere. It's like he just stood up and walked away." 

"Maybe he did." Since Allison was letting good food go to waste, Stiles reached over and liberated a few fries. "Maybe he went somewhere to die alone, like cats do when they're really sick." Allison, Scott and even Isaac turned to stare at him. Lydia made a _tsk tsk_ gesture with her fork, but he could tell that her heart wasn't really in it. 

Stiles lifted his hands, palms out in the universal gesture for surrender. "Look, I'm just saying. The man was a murdering, evil bastard. Can't we just sing the ding dong song and forget all about it?"

"Can we risk ignoring it?" Lydia waved her carrot stick, making the hummus wobble on the end. "If someone took him against his will, it can't be for a good reason. And he's not someone it's safe to have wandering around without a babysitter. Either way."

For a long second, Allison kept glaring. Then she apparently decided to ignore Stiles' existence and turned to look at Scott instead. "Gerard couldn't walk. Someone had to have carried him. Dad said he was going to check the office security footage." 

Scott nodded seriously, because Scott was the kind of guy who worried about people. Even people like Gerard. "I'll tell Ethan and Aiden to look for him. If they're going to stalk me, they might as well make themselves useful." 

"What about Derek?" Isaac looked nervously over at Scott, like he wasn't sure he was going to get approval for what he was about to say. "He's around now too, isn't he?"

Stiles kept munching on his fries and catalogued the expressions on display. Allison's: anger, disgust, sliding into guilt. Lydia: unabashed interest, which was interesting for a variety of reasons. Isaac didn't care.

And Scott just shrugged. "I haven't seen him. He vanished at the hospital."

"I don't think Derek has a lot of reason to help Gerard." Without looking, Allison reached down and picked up a cold fry, not noticing that her serving had shrunk. 

"Don't worry." Scott turned his thousand-watt smile on Allison. "We'll find him." 

Isaac puffed up. "Yeah. What Scott said."

"And _then_ can I sing the ding dong song?" Stiles asked plaintively.

Someone kicked him under the table. He was almost certain that it was deliberate this time.

* * *

Lydia curled her knees under her and stared at the blank sheet of paper on her easel. The tip of her black charcoal tapped at it, leaving little smudges behind. Something was there, but she couldn't quite reach it. It was like the endless trees she'd drawn before. Her fingers just wanted to move, if she could just figure out how to let them.

School had let out a half hour ago, leaving the art room entirely to her. Normally the quiet would be peaceful, but it felt heavy this time, weighted. When she closed her eyes, she could see the house, and the worms, and the hole in the floorboards...

Charcoal scratched over the paper. Lydia kept her eyes closed. A couple of times the stick skittered off the paper, but it picked right back up without any trouble. She barely noticed when her fingers exchanged the black charcoal for something else out of her box—smooth wood, light in her fingers, faintly waxy against the tooth of the paper. 

Time vanished. When her fingers stopped, she opened her eyes. 

A mirror stared back at her, ornate, scrolling edges gleaming bronze, details captured with more care than she ever managed with her eyes open. 

A shadow of Peter looked back at her from the glass, one hand pressed against it, and it was cracking. He grinned and pushed harder, sending a fresh line of cracks down the glass. Blue flashed in his eyes. 

_Did you think you could get away that easy?_

Lydia let out a scream and kicked back, falling off her chair. The easel fell over with a crack, pages crumbling. She kept scrambling, trying to get as far from the page as possible, until her back pressed against the wall and there was nowhere left to go. 

"Lydia— _Lydia_!" Someone wrapped their arms around her shoulders. She jerked away, trying to hide her head, but he wouldn't let her go, wouldn't let her escape and she couldn't—

" _Lydia_!" Hands grabbed her cheeks, forced her to look up. "It's me, it's okay, it's just me. Breathe with me, Lydia, come on..."

She swallowed, staring up at the blurry mess of pale skin and moles like charcoal dots. Then she collapsed forward, clinging to Stiles like a life raft. 

They huddled together on the cold concrete floor until her heart wasn't choking her any more. When she thought she could manage, Lydia pull away to sit upright on her own. Stiles let her go, but kept one hand on her shoulder. 

"Sorry." She sniffed and wiped under her eyes, discreetly checking her fingertips for mascara drips. "I just... had a moment. I'm okay now." 

Stiles looked over at the fallen easel. The way it had tumbled had bent the pages, but what she'd drawn was still on top. At the angle she was sitting at, she couldn't make out the details, but Stiles was higher than she was and could probably see everything. "Are you sure you're okay?" 

Pressing her lips together, Lydia forced a smile. It wobbled at the edges. "I have to be." 

Maybe it was against her dignity, but when Stiles hugged her again, all she could do was hang on.

* * *

_The effect was to end the Communist threat, and both countries joined NATO, a military alliance that guaranteed their protection._

Stiles paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard, history essay half-complete. Something itched at the back of his neck, like claws gently scraping skin. He could feel it pressing against him, watching. The loose papers scattered around his desk fluttered as his spectral tails lashed, fur fluffing out. 

Leaning back in his chair, he craned his head toward the window. He couldn't _see_ anything, but... "Shouldn't you be sniffing Scott's butt or something?" he asked the window conversationally. "I hear it's the thing all the cool werewolves are doing these days." 

It took a couple of minutes for Derek to get from wherever he'd been hiding to the window. Even then, he didn't actually come in. He hovered right on the edge of the sill, clinging with his toes and fingertips. 

For having been gone only a couple of weeks, Derek had changed a lot. He'd lost weight in the past two weeks. His shirt and jeans fit a little looser, a little more like a person and less like a walking wall of muscle. Even his face was a little softer. 

For a long second, it seemed like Derek was going to just creep silently, but then he said, "Scott's not the one the _oni_ are after. Is he?" 

Something tight wrapped around Stiles' chest. His vision tunneled, turning sharp and bleeding into shadow at the edges. 

Air rushed back in. His fur settled. It was _Derek_. He could deal with Derek. Derek was a puppy after Gerard. "Were after. They're not a problem anymore." Reaching out, he tapped a quick _ctrl+s_ before shutting the lid to his laptop. Then he swiveled around in his chair, looking at Derek directly. "How long have you known?"

"Long enough." Derek settled in on the window sill, taking a seat and stretching his legs out. He was still on edge, still ready to fight-or-flight, but less ready to pounce. The setting sun shined in behind him, making him look more supernatural than really any time before that hadn't actively involved claws and fangs. "I suspected for a while, but you were able to handle the mountain ash. That confused me."

Stiles shrugged. "I was human then."

"And you're not now?" A hint of a snarl curled Derek's lip, one too-sharp tooth flashing. "We won't let you have him, you know." 

Shock hit Stiles so hard that for a second he forgot to laugh. Then it burst out of him, a hard, choking sound that hurt his throat it was so hard. "Is that what you think? _I am him_. I'm Stiles."

"You're possessed—" 

"By myself." The laughter was completely gone, leaving a hollow ache behind. Stiles gripped the arm of his chair, trying to force his heart rate down. He wanted to rip something open, to tear it apart. Not just flesh, though that was sweet, but dreams. Hopes. Lives. Anything that threatened the few things he had left. "I'm still me, the same Stiles I've always been."

Derek didn't reply. He was staring at him, but not at his face. At his hand.

Stiles looked down. 

His hand, his perfectly human hand, was still gripping the chair, completely unchanged. Around it, five long scratches had been sliced into the chair, carved by invisible claws. When he flexed his knuckles, new curls of plastic came free.

Taking in slow, measured breaths, Stiles relaxed his hand and laid it flat against the arm of the chair. His aura slithered back under his skin, tucking itself away and hiding again. He pushed it down, until there wasn't even a faint glimmer of it visible. Then he looked up at Derek. 

"You gonna tell anyone?" 

"That depends." Derek's weight shifted forward, bending his knees until his jeans stretched tight across the fronts of his thighs, fabric pulling deliciously. "You gonna kill anyone?"

Bracing himself against the chair, Stiles rose to his feet and took the half-step across the distance between him and Derek. Their knees bumped, and Derek had to tilt his head back to look up at him. 

Leaning down, Stiles' lips brushed Derek's ear. "Are you?"

Derek went still, but his heart rate spiked. A powerful thrill ran down Stiles' spine. Derek might not have been the best werewolf in the world—that was obviously Scott—but there was no doubting that he was strong. Durable. Having that sort of toy at his fingertips...

That was a rush.

He pulled away enough to look Derek in the eye. They were close enough that he could feel the heat of Derek's skin, offset by the cool night breeze slipping in around him. "You and I want the same thing, Derek. To protect people. We don't have to work against each other."

"Your kind don't protect anything." 

"I bet a couple of years ago Chris Argent would have said something similar about you." 

"I don't even know that you're who you say you are." Tension trembled in Derek's muscles. Fight or flight. 

Stiles wondered which one was winning. 

A little lean was all it took for Stiles to press in closer to the heat of Derek's body, a spread of the knees and they slotted right together, his hands pressed against Derek's chest. He lifted his chin, baring his throat right under Derek's nose. "Smell me."

Derek took a deep breath, seemingly involuntarily. Then he reared back, trying to push Stiles off of him. "That doesn't prove anything."

Rather than move, Stiles sank down deeper, until he was practically sitting on Derek's lap. His claws sunk in, little rents in Derek's shirt anchoring him in place. "Doesn't it?" he asked, lip curling to bare his teeth. "You know me. We've been shoved together so many times, you have to have noticed. You think that could be faked?"

He could see the dark rim around the edge of Derek's irises, watch the muscles flex when he clenched his jaw, could practically smell the wild on him. The more Derek tried to shove him away, the closer Stiles got, until they were plastered together. If Derek had actually tried, he could have thrown Stiles across the room. But he wouldn't. Mistakes had lost him too many people to take that sort of risk lightly.

At least, that was what Stiles was banking on. 

Finally, Derek stopped pushing. "What do you want?" 

Stiles raised his eyebrows pointedly and glanced down, then back up. "You sure you wanna ask that?" 

Unexpectedly, Derek looked away, the arches of his cheekbones and tips of his ears flushed red. "You know what I mean."

Claws flexed against Derek's chest, just enough to scrape the skin. Then Stiles pushed up and away, letting Derek have his lap back. He twirled his chair around and threw a leg over to straddle it instead, crossing his arms across the back. "I want you to let me handle things. Just stay out of my way, and we'll be cool. You and Peter both."

"Peter's not the one you need to worry about." Derek's eyes dropped down to his hands, then back up. He shook his head and stood. "You've got three days. Scott's going to figure you out. I won't keep it from him longer than that." 

Stile rested his chin on his forearms. "Three days, huh? I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Kira folded her arms on the desk as her dad dragged the class through the last ten minutes as slowly as possibly. At least one person was snoring, and some people were practicing high school origami by making paper triangles flicking them whenever the teacher wasn't looking. She kept her eyes open, at least, which was better than the guy to her right had managed.

It wasn't hard to stay alert, though. Not when she was sitting two seats behind Stiles Stilinski. 

At first she hadn't realized what she was seeing. The light in the room was weird because of the open windows and one broken fluorescent that kept flickering. It was just a smudge hovering over Stiles' skin, a shadow where there shouldn't have been one. A handful of long strands of not-right light trailed behind him, puddling on the ground that could have been caused by anything, by a tree branch outside or someone sitting just the wrong way. It was nothing. 

And then the nothing twisted around and looked at her, eyes sparking with purple foxfire, and she'd nearly had a heart attack right there in front of her classmates, her dad and Stiles Actually-the-Freaking- _Nogitsune_ Stilinski. 

She might have fallen out of her chair. It was only a little humiliating. It—the _nogitsune_ had turned back around while everyone else stared. Everyone but Stiles, which—okay, was actually more creepy than reassuring. A lot more. Because it probably meant that Stiles knew that she knew and that could not possibly be good for anyone. 

And now she was stuck watching the clock as it sludged its way through the final seconds of class and probably the final minutes of her life. 

"Read up on pages sixty-eight through eighty for Monday's quiz, and don't forget your rough drafts!" her dad called just as the bell started singing its song of freedom. Someone yelped as they were jostled from their nap, and everyone else started collecting their books.

Kira was already halfway out the door, shoving her things into her bag as she went. The hallways were flooded with people. She did her best to get lost in them, stretching her legs as much as she could in the crowd, ducking down to try and blend in. Scott would be there somewhere. He'd know what to do. She hoped.

"Kira!"

She froze in the middle of hall, then put her head down and kept walking, clutching her bag to her chest. _Don't stop, don't look up, just keep going—_

A hand closed around her shoulder, yanking her aside. Something sparked between them when he touched her, a cool wash over her skin. "I need to talk to you," Stiles murmured, except his lips hadn't moved and _oh God oh God_.

"I don't—" she started to say, digging in her heels, but he'd already pushed her into one of the classrooms no one used anymore and shut the door. People got weird about rooms used by teachers who were messily murdered. Kira had never really understood why until now, when she was pretty sure she was going to be one of those messy murders.

_Oh God._

As soon as the door closed, Kira rushed to the other side of the room, near the large bank of windows that looked out on the parking lot. There were people down there. Surely someone would notice if she had to pound the window for help, right? "What do you want?" she asked shakily. "I'm going to be late for class."

"I told you. I want to talk." Stiles tapped the doorknob. The... _thing_ over his skin ran over it, and Kira heard something _click_ into place. 

A lock. He'd locked them in. 

Kira's shoulders straightened, but her knuckles had gone white where they were wrapped around her text books. Her shoulder still tingled where he'd touched her, and all she wanted to do was press against the window and soak in the sun until it went away. "About what?"

"You know about what." Dropping his bag, Stiles ambled over to a table near the door and hopped up on it, folding his legs under him. "You saw?" 

"I wasn't—" Something squeezed her shoulders, a brush of fur and softness, and Kira hunched in on herself. It was warm, comforting, and she wanted to believe that it was the _nogitsune's_ tricks, but... 

Sometimes, when she'd been little and had a nightmare, she'd imagined something wrapping her up in a hug that made it seem like everything would be okay. The sensations were so close that it was hard not to feel reassured, just a little. 

"I just—I can see it. On you—like Peter Pan's shadow. I never saw anything like it." Swallowing, Kira looked up from her books. In Stiles' eyes, she could see the same purple-black sparks that the shadow had. Almost like an answer, her own vision wavered, sharpened before sliding back to normal. "Does—do the others...?" 

"Not yet, but I can't keep anything from Scott for long." Slow and easy, Stiles patted the spot beside him on the table. "C'mere?"

It was hard to think of him as the _nogitsune_ , as something that wasn't actually Stiles. Kira barely knew him, but she didn't think something possessing Stiles would bother being... well, _nice_. Especially not to her.

Uncertainly, she put down her backpack on the floor. The distance of three desks simultaneously took forever and not nearly long enough. Before she could quite manage to believe she was doing it, Kira was hopping up to take the spot at Stiles' side. 

When their shoulders touched, the coolness spread again, sinking under her skin to slide through her veins. She sighed, closing her eyes and leaning into it as her muscles relaxed. The warmth around her shoulders settled in on top, and she could feel something like phantom fur fluffing around her.

_Why was I worried again?_

Stiles bumped her shoulder with his gently, making her look up. "We cool now?" 

Kira took a breath, feeling the air settle in her heart and burrow in to make a home. Something brushed her tails— _her tails_ , she had _tails_ , that was so _awesome_ —smoothing the fur and without thinking she stretched them out to feel it again. "We're cool."

An arm slid around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. "Good," he said, tilting their heads in close. "Because I have got _so much_ to tell you."

When Stiles smiled, she couldn't keep from smiling back.

* * *

The Nematon was a dead zone in the middle of messy, noisy life. Stiles sat as far away from it as he could without letting it out of his sight. He could still feel it, a poison leaking out into the woods to taint the glorious fall morning. Even the shadows had a stain.

It was the middle of what used to be Hale territory, and the woods had soaked in the decades of dedicated stewardship. The difference made what was happening to the Nematon that much more vile. Birds wouldn't land on the stump, and squirrels risked getting picked up by birds of prey to dodge around it. Even the insects that should have been swarming through the wood weren't present. It scared them all off. Too much blood had been spilled in its name for the tree to give up so easily to something as common as natural death. 

Not unlike someone else of his acquaintance. 

The warm energy of the living woods wavered as someone else stepped up to the edge of the Nematon's power. A ripple ran through the woods, made the lines of power under them flutter like a skipping heartbeat. His own matched it, hitching as the energy slid over his skin. He closed his eyes, breathing in the taste of life in the middle of so much death, and waited. 

A twig snapped behind him, with the sharp crack of someone doing it on purpose. "Shouldn't you be telling Scott?" 

"Shouldn't you be getting a watch?" Stiles tipped his head back, and then back some more until he could see Derek standing behind him, holding two halves of a stick. "I have most of the day left."

"Eleven o'clock." Derek squatted down in the carpet of old leaves, his knee brushing Stiles' shoulder to watch the stump with him. "Thirteen hours."

"Counting down." Casually stretching a bit, Stiles leaned back and braced himself with his hands. It pushed his shoulder more into Derek's leg, an unmissable point of contact. "How do you think he'll take it?"

"Badly."

"Great optimist, aren't you?" 

Derek shrugged. "Optimism never got me anywhere." 

Stiles tilted his head, conceding the point. 

For a long time after that, they were quiet. The Nematon ate their attention, their words, their thoughts, demanding it as the price for their presence. After a while, Derek dropped down to the leaves and mirrored Stiles' position, shoulder to shoulder to continue their vigil. 

Morning slipped over to lunchtime, thirteen hours to eleven before Derek broke the silence. "Are you ever going to tell anyone what happened?" His eyes stayed locked ahead, not even blinking. "How you're... this, now. Was it the Nematon? Did it change you somehow?"

Tipping his head to the side, Stiles ran his fingers through the crumbled leaves under him, considering his answers. Then he shook his head. "Yes. And no."

Rather than the unhappy frown Stiles was expecting, Derek just grunted. "Helpful." 

"You asked a yes or no question. I gave you a yes and no answer," Stiles pointed out, elbowing Derek lightly in the ribs. He had so much muscle there that it didn't even feel like elbowing bone. More like a well-padded chair. "But to answer the question you didn't ask, the Nematon didn't change me. It just opened a door that was already there." 

Derek mulled that over, visibly considering Stiles' words. The silence lasted long enough that it almost seemed like Stiles was going to get away without any more questions. But then Derek had to open his mouth and say, "A door you'd locked and forgotten about. Probably a long time ago, if Scott doesn't know about it. Right?"

Stiles pressed his lips together and glared at Derek's ear. "I don't like this new and perceptive you. What happened to the guy who couldn't smell a trick happening right under his nose?"

"He got in with a bad crowd." The corner of Derek's mouth twisted up, and he glanced over at Stiles. His eyes crinkled at the edges, more laugh line than frown."Wanna tell me why you locked it?"

_"Because when you try to fix people, you kill them."_

"Nope." Standing, Stiles dusted off the leaves from the back of his pants. His palms had creases and dents on them where the ground hadn't been quite smooth, and there was a spreading damp spot across his ass that was going to be embarrassing as hell as soon as he got around people, but it wasn't like he'd never been embarrassed before.

"Stiles—"

When Derek grabbed for him, he slid out of the way, twisting things just enough so that he was just to the side of where Derek's hand went. "I think I'll head home. Good talk, let's never do this again—"

He underestimated werewolf reflexes. Derek put on a burst of speed, and before Stiles could compensate, his back was slamming down into a pile of leaves with Derek's hand square in the middle of his chest. Stiles' tails lashed, sending the leaves into a flurry around them, but Derek just pushed him down harder, teeth bared. 

"You want me to trust you, but you're hiding something," he snarled.

Stiles laughed, letting his head fall back so he could meet Derek's eyes easier. "Dude, that's rich, coming from you." 

The tips of Derek's fingers dug into his shirt—not claws, _fingers_ , because Derek had control even when he was pissed. "That's not what—"

"You want to talk about trust?" Stiles asked, voice sharp as knives. "Let's talk about Kate—No." Memory flickered: Scott's terrified eyes, Lydia in a hospital bed, his dad being called on a suicide run. "No, wait, let's talk about _Peter_." 

Derek's whole face shut down, his jaw tightening and his lips twisting into a frown. It wasn't the shittiest poker face Stiles had ever seen—that went to Scott when they were kids—but it was pretty bad. "What about him?"

"You're letting the man who murdered your sister walk around free, after everything he's done, and you want to talk about _trust_?" Bracing himself on his elbows, Stiles pushed up into Derek's grip, forcing him to put more of his weight down. "Anyone else would have killed him by now and made sure it would stick. But you've got a long history of being close to serial killers, don't you?"

The weight on his chest faltered as Derek started to lean back, instinctively trying to escape the ugly truth. Stiles went with it, rising up to keep the contact, the closeness. "He's killed a dozen people," Stiles kept on, baring his teeth as he spoke, chopping off each clause with the stroke of a cleaver. "He killed Laura, he would have killed the rest of us—tried to kill _you_ , and now he's... where? Do you even know where he is right now?" 

"I know where he is." The words were jagged, defensive—Derek hadn't prepared for it, probably hadn't thought about it at all. That was Derek's weakness, his family. It had always been his weakness. "He's at home."

"His apartment. Yeah, that's secure." Stiles rolled his eyes when Derek glared at him. "No, really, that's going to help a lot next time he decides to kill a bunch of people. At least we'll know where to start looking for the bodies."

They'd finally gotten to the point where Derek was sitting back on his heels, balanced just above Stiles' thighs. Derek didn't even seem to realize he was ceding ground. "Not that—he's at the old house. He goes there every Saturday—that's not the _point_." The fingers in Stiles' shirt twisted, but Derek wasn't shoving at him anymore, he was just holding on. "This isn't about Peter, this is about you, and this—thing. You still haven't told Scott, and you tell him everything. Why?"

" _Maybe_ because I love him, and I don't want him to look at me like you are right now—like I'm the monster." Stiles grabbed Derek's wrist and squeezed until he felt the bones start to grind. "But you've got a history of loving monsters, don't you? Maybe you could give him some tips." 

While Derek was still reeling from that, Stiles used his hold on Derek's wrist to shove him backwards. Derek rolled to his feet before he was finished leaving track marks in the leaves, but Stiles was already walking away.

* * *

Scott tried not to laugh, rolling over on the grass and coming to a rest with his chin propped on his hand so he could watch Kira. "It's not that bad." 

"It is!" Kira complained. She was stretched out on the grass too, looking up at her hands like they'd betrayed her. In the sunlight her hair had brown highlights, and he could make out a smudge of sauce right at the corner of her mouth. "I swear I've been working on this." 

It was one of those late fall afternoons where everything was golden and warm and smelled like the very last end of summer. He'd never been able to enjoy one before, since pre-bite it had been hell on his asthma, with the start of flu season riding on the last bit of pollen season. But now he could wallow in the grass in his backyard without worrying if it would send him to the hospital.

So maybe the werewolf thing wasn't _completely_ bad. 

Kira kicked out her legs, using them as leverage to wobble herself upright. "Okay, watch this. I have this one _down_. Are you watching?"

"Yeah," Scott smiled, tilting his head to look up at her. "I'm watching."

She closed her eyes and took a breath. The sound of air rushing through her lungs was normal at first, then vibrated with a deep note as she let the air go. Just over her skin, the air thickened and grew brighter, like someone playing with mirrors. It solidified into the fox he'd seen at the black light party, two tails waving behind her. It was exactly the same, except...

"Is it supposed to do that?" Pushing himself up, Scott reached for the edges of Kira's aura. Smudges of black played through the lines of it, like a drop of ink dissipating into water. When he pushed his fingers through it, a static shock played over his skin, tingling up to his wrist. He pulled his hand away, shaking it to get the feeling back. "It wasn't like that before." 

Looking down at herself, Kira shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm getting stronger with practice. It makes it easier to see."

"Maybe." In his pocket, Scott's phone buzzed. Questionably moral spirits with very sharp swords running around meant no missed phone calls. It was a rule, or close to one. Also, it meant not thinking unpleasant thought about the fox-shape hovering over Kira's skin just then. So he seized the distraction, making an apologetic face at Kira as he pulled it out. "Hey, Mr. Stilinski."

"Hi, Scott. Have you seen Stiles?" An edge of worried lined the Sheriff's voice. Not as bad as it had been a week before, but still solid. "He isn't answering his phone."

"Stiles?" Scott repeated numbly, eyes going wide. Kira's—and the fox's—head whipped around. She clapped her hands over her mouth, muffling a squeak. He made a face at her that he hoped meant _hush_ , but he wasn't sure. Stiles was the one with the faces. "No, sir. I can make some calls?"

"Could you? You know... people. More of them than I do." 

"I'm sure he's fine," Scott promised, and hoped the Sheriff couldn't hear the squeak in his voice. "I'll call around, it's no problem." 

"Thank you, Scott. Have him call me if you find him." The call clicked to a close, and left Scott staring down at his phone awkwardly. 

Stiles was fine, Scott actually _was_ sure of that. If _maybe having a romantic moment with a guy ten years older than you_ was fine. By Stiles' lights, probably it was. And Stiles, in Scott's completely unbiased opinion, was the best Derek could ever hope to get, so _that_ had better be fine too, or Scott was going to have words. Words with teeth. Pointy teeth.

Kira shuffled over, bumping their knees together. "Are you going to call?"

"I should." Smooth plastic played under Scott's fingers as he turned his phone over in his hand. He flicked through his contacts list, back from _A-Argent_ all the way down to _Y-Yukimura_. "He'd want me to."

The fox around Kira snorted a little ball of fluffy-looking fire, then faded away back into sunlight, leaving just Kira. "You should leave him alone," she declared, lifting her chin with a stubborn huff. "If I were alone with a hot guy, I wouldn't want you to call."

_B-Balin, L-Lahey, S-Stilinski, H..._ "But you're not Stiles." With a couple quick flicks of his thumb, Scott pulled up the number and hit _call_. "He wouldn't want his dad to worry."

Derek picked up the phone right before it rolled over to voicemail. "What do you want, Scott?" he demanded, sounding slightly out of breath, and his heart was beating loudly enough to carry over the phone. "I'm busy."

Scott choked and reeled away from his phone, staring at in in wide-eyed horror. 

Kira perked up and leaned in close, cocking her head to hear better. "What did he say?" She bounced on her knees eagerly, inching closer in little scoots. 

In Scott's other ear, Derek said, "If you don't say something, I'm going to hang up." Somehow, Derek sounded even more annoyed than usual. "Three... two..."

"No, no! Don't hang up!" Scott dragged the phone in closer, giving Kira a pouty glare when she leaned in. She was way too interested in his best friend and Derek. Which, okay, Stiles was... Stiles, Scott couldn't even begin to be objective there, but _Derek_. Ick. "Look, I really, really don't want to know what you were doing, but can you tell Stiles to answer his phone once in a while? His dad's trying to get ahold of him." 

There was a long pause where Scott could hear Derek catching his breath. "And you're asking me to do this because...?"

Now that was just ridiculous. "Dude, I'm not stupid. Just tell him, okay?"

" _Dude_ , I have no idea what you're talking about."

For the second time, Scott pulled away the phone to stare at it blankly. The faceless user icon that stood in for Derek stared back at him unhelpfully. There was no hiccup in Derek's heartbeat, and he didn't have any reason to lie, so... 

"Last night—" Scott started to say, paused, and then pushed on. "Last night Stiles said that he'd be spending the day with you—you two had plans? You mean you haven't seen him today?" 

He could almost imagine the confused twist in Derek's eyebrows. "I ran into him this morning, but we never had plans. Why would he..." Derek's voice trailed off. In the background, something cracked like wood on wood. "I'll call you back in a second."

"Wait—" But the connection had already gone dead. 

There was barely time for Scott to think about calling someone else—Isaac, maybe, or Allison—before Derek's name flashed over the phone again. 

He didn't even wait for Scott to speak before saying, "I need you to call your pack and get to the Preserve as fast as you can. Stiles is going to kill Peter."

* * *

Foxfire sparked, filling the Nematon's sunset-dark clearing with a flood of unsteady light that wasn't nearly enough for Stiles to work by. It didn't matter, though. He wasn't performing surgery, after all. 

Patients were usually supposed to survive surgery. 

Peter's face was bright red, blood dripping down his temple, across his cheek to pool on the surface of the Nematon. Its hunger filled the clearing, a naked yearning that made Stiles' stomach clench in sympathy pains. He ignored it as best he could—he wasn't doing this for _it_ , but it didn't know, didn't care as long as it got its sacrifice. 

More blood painted Peter's naked skin, smeared where Stiles' fingers had run over it, thin lines of it gone tacky where he'd bled. His face was twisted with impotent rage and, hidden in the occasional blue sparks of his eyes, fear. Plain nylon rope kept his hands and feet tightly bound behind his back. It never would have kept him under any other condition, but he hadn't expected Stiles to be a threat. And once Stiles had him unconscious, the rest was easy. 

The knife was a utility knife, plain and simple and sharp as Lydia's tongue on a bad day. It didn't do delicate work, but it did cut down to the bone easily. Every brush of the foxfire made Peter's entire body bow against the rope holding him, teeth clenched around the gag. Werewolves, Stiles had found, were surprisingly sensitive to electricity. It didn't take much to stop their healing factor, and even less if you just needed them pliable. 

Stiles didn't talk as he worked; he really didn't care if Peter thought it was revenge, or a trick, some sort of possession. He grabbed Peter's wrist and twisted his arm until the shoulder gave a sick _crack_ , and the limb was facing the way he needed it. The new angle made it easy to carve Peter's veins up along the arm. They healed again too rapidly to actually kill him, but it was the ritual that mattered, not the marks. 

"Peter!" The voice echoed through the woods like a howl, though it was perfectly human. 

Sighing, Stiles rolled his eyes upward toward the slowly darkening sky. "Figures," he muttered, leaning over to clean his knife in the dirt. "Dramatic assholes..."

Under his hands, Peter's chest jerked in a muffled laugh. His head rolled to look more squarely up at Stiles, and there were crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Smile lines.

"Oh, shut up. No one gets to rescue you. I'm not _Derek_ , I don't leave things unfinished." Stiles grabbed Peter's blood-slick shoulders and rolled him over. His hands and feet tied to his thighs behind him made his back arch upward, resting most of his weight on his shoulders. When Peter wiggled, Stiles rubbed his tails. 

Lightning flashed over Peter's skin. Burned flesh and hair filled the clearing with smoke. The blood on his skin blackened into soot. Muscles seized. Even the thick gag couldn't muffle his screams. 

The energy around the Nematon writhed hungrily, stretching up around him. It liked pain. Death was better, but the tragedy of Beacon Hills and the Hale fire so close had kept it going for a long time. 

Keeping one hand planted in the middle of Peter's chest, Stiles slipped his knife under the lower edge of the rib cage. It sparked where his foxfire was still in force, cauterizing the edges of the wound. He had to saw to cut through the layers of tissue and membrane. Peter—inconsiderate as always—made it even harder by moving, because of course he would. 

"Stiles, no—''

Without looking up, Stiles threw a ball of foxfire toward the voice. It hit a tree and crackled, coming nowhere near doing any damage, but it still made them—made _Derek_ come to a stop. 

"Stiles, whatever you think, this isn't you—"

"Yes. It is." Peter's body bucked in a last, desperate attempt to force Stiles off of him. It just made the knife slip in deeper. "You can't tell me you're surprised." 

Tossing the knife aside, Stiles wiggled his hand inside the hold he'd made. Peter was as hot inside as he would have expected any werewolf to be. That seemed wrong, somehow. Someone like Peter should have been ice cold.

The others were circling like— _ha_ —like a pack of wolves. Allison was probably somewhere in the trees, but Isaac and the twins were there with Scott, fanning out in an arch. Even Lydia, but she looked less shocked than the rest. Her expression when she looked at Peter half-gutted and writhing could rightfully be called _hungry_. 

_Snikt._

Stiles heard the noise a second too late, turning his head in time to see the arrow in flight. He raised his hand, power glowing at his fingertips.

Someone else got to it first. The arrow burst into flames, falling to ash that skittered across Stiles' skin and singed his eyebrows. 

Kira stepped into the clearing, hands up, purple-tinted fire on her palms. "Stop," she said, voice unsteady. "Let him finish." 

Stiles flashed her a quick smile, then shoved his arm in Peter up to the elbow. The steady, dull thump of a rotting heart was just out of reach. If he could just get to it...

" _Kira_?" Scott sounded like he'd been sucker punched. It actually made Stiles feel guilty. He'd never wanted Scott to see this—Scott should never have to see the dirty work. "You can't— _why_?" 

"Scott, I..." She swallowed and the foxfire wavered in her hands. Her feet skidded in the leaves as she stepped back toward Stiles. When she got close enough for their auras to brush, her foxfire steadied, and her chin came up. "We're _kitsune_. It's different for us."

Peter's thoughts never mattered, but Scott's did. Turning his head, Stiles met Scott's red eyes. "Sometimes things need to be locked up. Permanently." Warm, still-living muscle brushed Stiles' fingertips. Peter's face was changing, turning werewolf-hard and desperate. "The Nematon's not good for much, but it does that. For a price."

"And Gerard." Allison still had an arrow strung as she stepped into view, but it was pointed down. "You took him, too. Didn't you?"

"Yup." With a little more stretching, Stiles wrapped his fist around his goal. Peter bucked again, desperation coming through as a choked whimper. The heart squirmed, tried to wiggle free the way its owner did, but Stiles was able to dig his claws in and hold tight.

While it was still in his palm, he turned his head to look at Lydia and cocked an eyebrow. "No scream?" 

Her lips pressed together. She shook her head, eyes locked on Peter. "I don't scream for things that were already dead. Do it." 

That made sense. Sinking his claws in, Stiles pulled. He'd never forget the way Peter went still as he ripped it out. In one smooth move, he slammed it down on the Nematon, grabbed the knife and pinned it like a butterfly. The ground shifted, and in a breath Peter was gone. Hopefully for good.

Blood dripped down his elbow, splattering across the Nematon. Peter's body was quickly cooling, going grey faster than natural decay would allow. If Stiles had done his research right, the Nematon would swallow it soon, along with any other evidence. 

He looked up at the witnesses. Derek had gone pale, which was only to be expected, since he'd lost Peter for the second time. The twins weren't looking—which was good. They were the last people who got to have opinions about necessary blood. Isaac was somewhere between rage and nausea. And Scott...

Scott was crying. 

Stiles swallowed and looked away. "Like I told Derek. I'm going to protect you guys." Shaking his hand to get rid of the excess, Stiles stepped up beside Kira, pressing their shoulders together. "We will. Even if it's from your own mistakes."

The pack parted, not letting them get close enough to touch as they walked through. After a second, Lydia followed. When Stiles arched his eyebrows at her, she smiled a little and shrugged. One of her hands reached out to link with his free one, the one still covered in Peter's blood.

"Thank you," she said quietly, squeezing.

In the woods behind them, a wolf howled, long and low, mourning a lost pack mate. Stiles would have liked to think it was for Peter. 

He knew better.


End file.
